The Boy in the Box
by paganpunk2
Summary: On the eve of the anniversary of his own parents' deaths, Bruce spends a little time with videos chronicling Dick's circus childhood and considers the weight of both the past and the future. Three-shot, semi-sequel to 'A Weekend in Bruges.' Part of the Spark in the Dark series.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: So, here is the beginning of what will be a short little three-shot, in line with the story arc containing 'To Catch A Predator,' 'Of Friends and Foes,' etc. This story takes place between 'A Weekend in Bruges' and 'Ache of Cowardice' ****(please see my profile for the full list and order of stories in this universe). It was inspired by a comment from AJCrane, who stated that she would like to see Bruce's reaction to the videos of Dick's childhood circus performances that were given to him on a jump drive by Clark at the very end of 'A Weekend in Bruges.' Rather than make it a straight epilogue, I decided to fast forward a bit and take a look at Bruce reminiscing about them some three years later. ********Happy reading!**

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"Damn it, _where_ did I put those cufflinks?" Bruce muttered as he stalked out of his closet. His tuxedo jacket lay on the bed, awaiting its master as he searched for the fasteners he wanted. _The ones Alfred laid out are nice, but…I'd like to wear the sapphires for this._ He didn't allow himself to acknowledge the reason behind his desire; tonight's ball was a Wayne Foundation event, and with the anniversary of his parents' murder the very next day, wearing his father's favorite jewelry seemed only appropriate. _Where __are__ they…_ He couldn't have misplaced them, surely. They were, after all, one of his few truly cherished possessions.

His eyes fell on the small lacquered box that crowned his dresser. _Oh. Right. They're where I always keep them,_ he berated himself for his panic. _Put your head on straight, Bruce, those socialites will eat you alive otherwise…_ He drew up to it and let his fingertips slowly caress the pair of perfect white cranes that were locked in an eternal nuzzle on the lid. They guarded a thousand precious moments, all memorialized in the few items that not even Batman's well-armored heart would allow far from his bedside. He wasn't entirely sure he had the time, let alone the energy, to confront those ghosts tonight, and his hands hesitated. _…But I want those cufflinks,_ he determined finally. _I'll feel wrong all night otherwise._

Despite the fact that he hadn't lifted the top from the container in almost a year, he still recognized every piece inside immediately. Ticket stubs from the charity function at which his parents had first met; a heavy gold pocket watch, purchased six generations earlier and still, if wound, capable of keeping accurate time; there, the brilliant blue and silver squares he'd been searching for; scattered throughout, a few loose pearls, long ago wiped clean but forever smeared crimson in his mind. Nothing present in the jumble was less than half a century old, save one item whose vulgar plastic shine gave it away as an interloper amongst the antiques.

The billionaire, however, smiled at that coarse reminder of modernity, picking it from the pile and mingling it with the sapphires. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he opened his hand and considered what he held, the past mingling with the present in his palm. _Father's cufflinks. Dick's childhood. So different, and yet…_ And yet equally dear, he could quite finish.

"Knock knock," came a soft voice from the doorway. Twisting around to see the person he'd already identified, Bruce slipped the jump drive into his pocket secretly, leaving only the links.

"Hey, chum. You can come in."

"I figured," the thirteen-year-old shrugged as he entered. "But I didn't want to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing me." As he spoke he worked the first half of the link set onto its hole, securing it carefully before moving on to the second. _How could you? I see you so little as it is…_

"…You want me to take care of things tonight?" he asked, sprawling across the mattress so that his head came to rest a few inches from Bruce's leg. It was still a relatively rare thing for Robin to be let out completely alone on the streets of Gotham; splitting up to work different cases for the evening was one thing, but Robin running the roofs while Bruce reclined at home was all but unheard of. _I know what tomorrow is,_ the boy's face relayed gently. _Batman always gets rougher right before. Too rough. He should stay in tonight. It's better for everyone that way._

…_You know me – and him – too well, kiddo._ Still, he gave the matter several minutes of heavy thought before answering. _There's nothing big cooking this week. Joker and Two-Face are both in Arkham, and he knows what he can handle with anyone else who pops up. _"You'll be cautious," he ordered. "And you'll stay out no later than two o'clock."

"And you'll stay in altogether?" he raised an eyebrow.

"…Unless you need me, yes. I'll stay in."

"Sounds good to me," he grinned. "…I've never seen those before," he cocked his head curiously as the cufflinks caught his attention.

"…I haven't shown them to you?" the billionaire frowned.

"Don't think so. I'd remember something like that. They look like the kind of thing Catwoman would give a limb for."

"Good thing she doesn't know I have them, then," he joked failingly. "Here, take a look," he offered, turning his wrist towards him.

Dick sat up and reached out, tracing a thumb around the scalloped silver frame that surrounded the gem in the center. _…They match your eyes even better than they do mine, _Bruce thought slowly as he watched his son examine into the stone. _Imagine that._

"They're beautiful," the teen said reverently. His gaze rose to meet his guardian's. "…Your dad's?" he whispered.

"…Yeah," he nodded, looking away. "They were his." A silence drew out between them, interrupted only by the faint sounds of Dick hitching himself closer so he could lean his head against the man's shoulder. Releasing an enormous sigh that he hadn't realized he was holding in, the billionaire pulled him into a tight hug.

"…I promise I'll be super careful tonight," the boy swore. _The last thing you need is to think you might lose someone else right now._

"Good," he replied fiercely. "…Thank you, Dicky," he kissed the top of his head. "Feel a little better? Sort of?" He gave a lop-sided, completely understanding smile as he pulled back. _Nothing really makes you feel better on the anniversary of your parents' deaths – I know nothing really works for me, at least – but it's nice when someone at least tries._

"A little bit, yes." It was true. _You do that to me. You make me believe everything will be all right, even when we're standing in the middle of hell. How do you do that?_

"I'm glad." Standing, he stretched. "Well. I guess I should go get ready. No harm in getting started early, right?"

"Is your homework finished?"

"Psh, please," he rolled his eyes with a laugh. "I did half of it in the car on the way home and the rest before dinner. Alfred already checked it and said it was fine."

_Of course it was fine._ "Go on, then," he smiled softly, shooing him. "Go convince criminals that Gotham isn't a friendly playground."

"Maybe the Commissioner should suggest a change to the city motto. 'Gotham: Not a Friendly Playground.'" He mused for a moment. "…No, I guess the Chamber of Commerce probably wouldn't like that, huh?"

"The head of the Chamber will be at the benefit tonight. I'll have to ask him," Bruce smirked. "I'll be sure to credit the idea to you."

"Gee, thanks. I guess it doesn't hurt to get started on my reputation as an airhead _before_ I really go out into high society," he rolled his eyes.

"People will tell an airhead anything, you know," he disclosed. "They think you won't remember it, or won't connect the dots with things they've told you in the past. It's a very useful label to be able to wear when need be."

"…I hadn't thought of it like that," he ruminated. "Huh. Good point."

"You bet it is. Now go, would you? Robin has bad guys to apprehend."

"And the world's most eligible billionaire has ladies to make swoon." He spun about once, plastering the back of his hand to his forehead and fanning himself dramatically. "I do say, Mister Wayne, I simply don't understand how it is that a man of your qualifications has failed to find a suitable marriage partner," he mocked the voice of a flighty southern belle Bruce had dated for a brief stint some months before. "It's a _tragedy_, a real and true _tragedy_…oh, my, I do feel faint at the very thought of such a man as yourself wandering through life without a capable woman on his arm…"

The act earned him a snicker and a glinting glance of approval, and that was all he wanted. _Distraction always works best for me, and they say laughter's a good medicine, so…there. I made you laugh._ "Enjoy being bored for hours while I'm out having all the fun," he waved as he all but pranced out of the room.

"…Be safe, son," he whispered after his departing shadow.


	2. Chapter 2

"Master Wayne," Alfred greeted him in the foyer sometime shortly after midnight. "How was the benefit?" he asked, taking the tuxedo jacket that was shrugged off the instant the front door had shut out the world's prying eyes.

"Its usual self. Stuffed full of people with more money than brain cells drooling all over themselves and each other in a ridiculous rivalry for social status."

"…Ah." _Well, we __are__ in a delightful mood this evening, aren't we?_ "I trust that a respectable amount was raised for the Foundation, at least?" he searched for a bright spot.

"…Several million," Bruce admitted. "I can't complain about that."

"Very good, sir." _Your parents would be so proud of the work you do in their honor,_ he kept to himself. "Master Dick informed me before departing that Batman is taking the night off, so I've laid out some less formal clothing for you upstairs."

"…I don't know," the billionaire rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Maybe I should suit up and go check on him." _If anything were to happen to him, and today of all days…god. No. Don't think like that. He's fine. _

"Nonsense," the butler rebutted, his tone leaving no room for opposition. "He has radioed in twice since departing to assure me that he is perfectly fine. He seemed to be having a grand time, in fact. That aside, you have already had a long evening, and heaven only knows the last time you allowed yourself a brief respite. The city and Master Dick are both well tonight; if you take just a few hours of rest, you may feel rather better yourself."

"…I'm going down to the cave. Just to wait until he gets home," he raised his hands, placating the Englishman before his eyebrows could shoot halfway to his hair. "I won't go out unless he needs me."

"As you wish, sir," his mouth tightened imperceptibly. "Will you be changing first, or should I bring down refreshments immediately?"

"I'll go down like this," he handed over his tie. "Don't worry about making anything, I ate plenty at the benefit."

"In that case, I will begin work on the pastries for Sunday's corporate picnic."

Bruce sagged. _I forgot about that stupid thing._ "…Do I really have to go?" he asked distastefully.

_It's amazing how he reverts to the age of five each year when this event rolls around,_ Alfred thought amusedly. "Seeing as how it's your company, sir, I'm afraid your presence is rather expected. But Master Dick will be with you to help make the day less onerous."

"And he would be able to do exactly that, except that he _likes_ these picnics. He dragged me into a scavenger hunt last year. A _scavenger hunt_, Alfred." He scowled. "We didn't even win the damn thing because he insisted on stopping to help every frustrated-looking…person…with a crying kid that we ran across along the way. And _this_ year he's already said he's going to make me partner with him for a three-legged sack race. Won't the media love _that_. Christ," he shook his head.

"If it bothers you that much, you have the option of _not_ taking him," the butler suggested non-committally. "I'm sure he'll only be disappointed for, oh, a week or so. Two at the most."

Bruce glared at him ineffectually. "The guilt card, Alfred?"

"Well, sir, if the thought makes you feel guilty already, then I suppose you'll be competing in a three-legged sack race the day after – excuse me, tomorrow now – won't you?" His eyes twinkled. "You've a good chance of winning it, at least. The two of you are used to working together without thinking about it."

"Yeah. So long as Dick doesn't want to help everyone who falls down along the way back up."

"Which would you prefer to be known for, Master Wayne? Winning a sack race, or raising a generous son?"

"…Touché," the billionaire gave in. Sighing, he rolled his head around his shoulders in an attempt to loosen muscles that were tight from hours of playing the fool. "I'll be downstairs."

"Please have Master Dick stop by the kitchen on his way to bed." _I want to see for myself that he's safely returned from his solo adventures._

"I don't think I'll have to push him on that. When was the last time he skipped a post-patrol cookie by choice?" Bruce asked. "But I'll tell him anyway," he waved as he started along the hallway towards the clock.

Downstairs, his feet sore from hours of wearing the stiff new shoes Alfred had foisted on him that evening – _you must break them in some time, sir,_ had come on the heels of his lamentations,_ and seeing as how they were purchased specifically to be worn with a tuxedo, how else do you propose to season them? – _Bruce dropped into one of the computer chairs_. _"What the hell?" he said out loud as something stabbed his hip. Shifting awkwardly, he jammed his hand into his pocket and withdrew the thumb drive he'd hidden from Dick earlier in the evening. "…Oh."

For a minute he simply held it. _I wonder if Clark knew what he was giving me?_ he wondered. _He described it as 'Dick's childhood,' but…it's so much more than that._ Once he'd been told what was on the memory stick, he'd waited impatiently all through the rest of his son's tenth birthday party, anxious to sit down and watch the boy grow up. That night, after tucking him safely away in bed, he'd stolen into his own chamber, a laptop and a pair of headphones in his hands. His eyes had spent the next three hours alternating between producing tears of pride and pain as he saw the slight figure fast asleep in the next room grow from a wriggling bundle of blankets into a tumbling toddler, progressing over time into complex floor routines and dives that were broken by a net rather than water.

In the last few movies, taken mere weeks before the fateful night that had brought them together, Dick finally joined his parents on the trapeze. Bruce had restarted those final films again and again, entranced. _They were magnificent without him,_ he thought, recalling the few minutes of acrobatics he'd been able to witness before the lines broke, _but __with__ him…his being up there with them took their performance to a whole new level._ John Grayson's always-precise catching carried a far more determined air when he was reaching out for his son than for anyone else, his wife included; Mary somehow radiated even greater happiness when it was her child's hands that she clasped, his trusting eyes turned up to meet hers for the instant that they swung together. 

_He gives me something close to that same smile,_ the billionaire had realized with a start as the penultimate performance featuring all three aerialists began. John arced up towards the boy on the edge of the platform, and just before the child leapt his lips curved, some secret combination of tiny facial muscles creating an expression that was matched only by the identical one on his father's face. _…He had a totally different look for his mother,_ he decided after several views of that night's act. _But the one he gave John, his catcher, the man whose hands brought him into and helped carry him through every performance…it's damn near the one he gives me, and only me. My version is just sadder, and maybe a bit more…searching. Yeah. Searching. Like he's looking for something…but it's still that same bright glow._

Three years after that epiphany had made him close his laptop and slip back into Dick's room to stare questioningly down at him – _what are you trying to find when you look at me that way, chum?_ he'd ached to wake him and ask - Bruce plugged the drive into the computer before him. A soft smile of anticipation crept across his mouth as the external storage folder opened to reveal not only the videos Clark had given him but several others that he himself had added since. There wasn't time to watch all of them, at least not so long as Robin returned by two as he'd been ordered to, so he started with the first night all three Graysons had flown as one. He sank into a silent reverie, moving only to start the next show.

_Is it possible for me to care for him the same way that they did?_ he wondered, steepling his fingers as two-thirds of the family went through what would be their last full performance. _Do I ever look at him like __that__? _he queried as Mary gave her offspring a glowing glance._ With such…such obvious joy and adoration? _His musings jolted to a stop suddenly. _My father used to look at me that way,_ he recalled, his internal monologue a strained whisper as a long-buried memory assaulted him. _Tonight, a long time ago. I remember. I remember again. He tucked me in – he was never home in time, but he was that night, the last night – and he…he told me that he…that he cared for me. And I said I…well, I know what I said. I know because it was the last time I was ever able to say it. But even if he hadn't said a word, I would have known, because it was written all over his face. _

He circled back around to his original question. _…Do I look at Dick that way, ever? The way his parents looked at him, and the way mine did at me? Because I should, all the time. Every day. Every second. But…do I? _And whether he did or not, how was he even supposed to begin to ask that question? _There aren't exactly hard and fast guidelines for measuring affectionate expressions,_ he rued. _…There should be. It would make this much simpler._

Bruce was immensely grateful that he had no footage of what happened at the next show. _It would be bad enough if he found the drive and watched all of the others,_ he knew. _But if that were on there, and he didn't know…the last thing I want to do is send him back into the nightmares of that night, even if they are the ones he almost never screams about. _Instead, he double clicked on a clip taken six months later, when the boy had recovered as much as he was ever likely to and was eagerly preparing to test out his new alter ego for the first time. A smaller – _although,_ he chuckled privately, _not __much__ smaller_ – version of Robin flitted around the cave, being recorded without his knowledge by Batman's cowl camera.

After a few seconds the scene changed drastically, and the bright little bird was dropped into the end of a street fight. He rode a man some four times his weight to the ground, then looked about to find all the others down and Batman watching, again documenting the moment surreptitiously.

"…Well, I got _one_," he announced. "I guess that's better than none, right?"

"Correct." In the cave, Bruce flinched. _How can I sound so cold towards him? I know I'm in costume, and so is he, but…ugh. I hate having to act like I couldn't care less about him. It might help protect him physically, but it can't do much for him emotionally._ Normally he didn't even think about it – that was just how Batman was, and they both accepted it without question – but tonight it made him unhappy to think about how many of their conversations conveyed no warmth from him to his boy.

Robin didn't seem to mind. Stepping off of his unconscious catch, he walked the few feet between himself and his mentor and stared up, his pointed little face curious. Suddenly the special smile broke across his lips, and he nodded as if he'd seen something that satisfied him. "…Should I tie him up?"

"…Yes." For once, there was a sliver of emotion there, a thickness in the speaker's throat that couldn't quite be covered up completely.

_I was so proud,_ he recollected as the clip ended. _His first patrol. His first criminal. Did…did it show? How could it have, practically nothing shows when I'm in the cowl. But…he saw something. Didn't he? Why else would he smile like that? _

He played a few more movies, each one drawing closer to the present and none of them answering the questions still swirling in his head, before a soft tone informed him that his partner had reached the entrance to the cave. _I could ask, I suppose, but…how?_ Shaking his head, he quickly closed out the file, ejected the drive, and replaced it in his pocket. _No,_ he concluded as he rose and walked towards the garage section of the cave._ He'll want to know what got me thinking about it to begin with, and…_ He trailed off, freezing as the teen drove slowly into view.

_Robin. Dick. __Blood._


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm all right," fell out of the boy's mouth the instant he saw Bruce hustling towards him, clearly fighting to keep his face calm. "It was a glancing hit at best. The guy wasn't even holding the knife right," he rolled his eyes as he shut off his motorcycle. A few drops of red splattered from his elbow to the floor.

"Your shoulder is soaked," the billionaire grimaced. _…But there's no pumping,_ he noted gratefully, _so it probably didn't nick anything important, vessel-wise. _"Where else are you hurt?"

"Nowhere. Couple of bruises, maybe. It only bled as much as it did because it got worse once I started driving." His good shoulder rose and fell in a half-shrug. "I knew I'd be late getting back if I stopped and tried to deal with it, and I didn't want you to worry. I figured you'd freak out less this way." _Not that my plan appears to be working,_ he sighed silently._ Of all the nights to come in bloody, I had to pick this one… _Flipping up the lenses in his mask, he reached out and gripped the man's forearm gently. "…Bruce," he forced him to tear his eyes from the injury, "I'm okay. Really. It's nothing."

He stared at him for a second, reading his face, then pulled him in a careful embrace. _Thank god. If it had been worse…if you hadn't come back…if you…_ He shuddered, shaking off the thought and turning away from the hellish path through his own imagination that it wanted to lead him down. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said rather hoarsely.

"Sure." Swinging off of his bike easily, he didn't complain about the fingers that wrapped themselves around his good elbow and guided him into the medical section of the cave. "…Alfred's going to be ticked," his eyes widened as he took in the front of his guardian's previously snow-white shirt, now bearing several large red splotches from their short hug.

"What?" He looked down. "…Well, that's what bleach was invented for. Don't," he stopped the teen as he prepared to remove his tunic. "I'll cut it off. There's no point in aggravating the wound with extra movement." Preparing to roll up his sleeves, he carefully removed his cufflinks and glanced around for a safe place to set them where they wouldn't be forgotten. "…Hold on to these for me, would you?" he asked Dick after a second of unsuccessful searching.

"Sure," he accepted them with his good hand. _They really are beautiful,_ he scrutinized them as surgical shears were retrieved. _They must be worth a fortune, but they aren't ostentatious the way most stuff like that is. _

Bruce interrupted his musing, wanting answers as he began to slice through soiled fabric. "Tell me what happened."

"Meh, everything was great until right before I had to head back," he started, closing his fingers around the links as his costume was peeled away. "Nothing big, just the usual. Drugs, theft, assault, rinse and repeat. I _did_ overhear a dealer tell one of his clients that there's someone down off of Cannery Row who's setting up a giant meth lab, so that might lead somewhere. He said something about it being a big enough operation to drop the local prices through the floor."

"…So it's more than just a push to make money," the billionaire opined as he carefully cleaned out the four-inch-long gash where the edge of a blade had skated across his son's shoulder. _A slightly different angle, and it might have gone into his throat,_ he gulped. …_No. Stop it. Just…stop it._

"That's what I figured, too," he replied, wincing at the vigor with which the abused nerves at the top of his arm were being attacked. "What good is it to manufacture an illegal substance if you're making so much of it that it becomes cheap? Unless they're going to try and transport it out of Gotham, there's got to be an ulterior motive. Anyway, the scratch is from a guy who stuck up a convenience store. I think he was on PCP or something, because he was _insane_. I was on my way back here when that came over the scanner nearby. I pulled in and took care of it really quick, but he tagged me." He craned his neck to see where Bruce was working. "…How's it look?"

"Like you were cut open," he grimaced, chucking gauze into a garbage can.

"…Sorry," he looked away. _I know this wasn't a good night for me to get hurt, but…it's minor. It barely even needs stitches, not that that will stop you…_

"…It's okay, Dick. I just…" His hands stilled. _I know you've come home in much, much worse shape,_ he moaned to himself, _but no matter how many times I see you bleed, it never gets any easier. _

"Hey, Bruce?" His voice, still child-high but balanced on the edge of puberty, drew the man's attention. "I'm right here. And I'm _fine._ It's not going to kill me. Especially considering the scrubbing you just gave it," he tried for a little levity. It failed, and his expression sobered. "…If it makes you feel better, I won't go out tomorrow night. Tonight," he frowned, remembering that it was technically morning. "Whatever. I'll stay in, is my point. That way…that way there's no chance of something happening to me the same day as them. Okay?"

_Yes. Stay in. All day. Don't even go down the stairs,_ sat at the tip of his tongue. He bit it back."It's Saturday tonight," he reminded him. In order to lessen the odds that his school performance would be affected by night work, Robin was still only allowed out on weekends. Exceptions were made when Batman needed his assistance on a case and over school holidays, but only extreme injury had thus far proven capable of keeping the Boy Wonder off the streets on Friday and Saturday nights. _I know you don't want to stay in, and I love that fact, but…tell me you don't mind. I want you to be here, at home, safe, but I don't want to force you. _

"I…I can take a night off if you want me to," he shifted slightly. He wasn't happy about the idea, especially since he knew his mentor would be more violent than usual if he went out the following evening without someone to help temper him. _Plus, that means no patrol for a week,_ he added to himself. _Still, though…if it makes him feel that much better…_ He couldn't stand the haunted look that had been in Bruce's eyes since the instant he'd realized he was injured. It _had_ to go away, and if promising to veg out for an evening was what it took to do that, then it was worth it.

"I know you want to go out again tonight," the billionaire said. "But if you're willing to stay in…I really would prefer that, Dick. I know it's foolish and superstitious, but-"

"It's not foolish," the teen cut him off sincerely. "It's how you feel. I couldn't hold it against you if I wanted to. I mean, I don't like it when you go out on the night _my_ parents were killed, especially when I'm not with you, so…I get it. It's…it's okay. Honest."

"…Thank you," he breathed, relief sweeping through him. "…I'm going to put a few stitches in the deeper end of this."

"How did I know you were going to say that?"

"Too much experience needing patched up," came back sadly.

_Good move, Grayson,_ he kicked himself as his guardian moved to get a suture kit. There was a sharp, unexpected prick at the back of his shoulder. "Gaaah. You could have warned me."

"I know you hate needles. It's easier to surprise you. You don't make such an awful face this way," Bruce replied as he injected the local anesthetic. Neither spoke as the wound was sewn shut, doused in antibacterial agents, and bandaged. "…You're _sure_ there was nothing else?"

"Just bruises. I promise."

"…Okay. I'll bring you your clothes. Alfred wants to see you in the kitchen before bed."

"He can't have actually thought I'd skip post-patrol snack time," Dick laughed.

"I tried to tell him," the man almost smiled.

Upstairs, the butler insisted that an extra cookie would help his younger charge 'keep his strength up' following his bout of blood loss. Warm, ache-free thanks to the painkillers in his system, and with the pleasant tastes of chocolate chips and vanilla lingering on his tongue, the teen eventually dragged himself towards his room. He didn't comment when Bruce followed him, not surprised in the least at having a tail during his ascent to the second floor. Just inside his door, he remembered that he had tucked the cufflinks into the pocket of his pajama pants. "Oh. Here," he held them out to their owner on his open palm. "Those would _not_ have been comfortable to sleep on."

The billionaire considered him for a moment, then gently pushed his son's fingers up until they covered the heirlooms. "…I asked you to hold onto them for me, didn't I?" he asked, one corner of his mouth twitching upward as he watched the boy's face change from confusion to shock.

"…Bruce…but…they were your father's," his tongue fumbled.

"Yes. They were. And he passed them down to me, albeit," he said slowly, "not in the way I'm sure he would have preferred. Now it's my turn to hand them off, and I want to make sure that you don't come to possess them in the same atmosphere that I did. Besides," he whispered, still holding Dick's loose fist closed over the sapphires, "they match your eyes better than they do mine."

"I…wow," he sputtered, his eyes hot. "Are…are you _sure_?"

"I've rarely been more certain about anything in my life. Take them. They're yours." _And you're mine._

Their gazes met in the semi-darkness. "…Thanks, dad."

Wanting to hide the tears threatening to escape following that infrequently-used moniker, he pulled him in for a second, mindful of his damaged shoulder. "Don't thank me yet," he grinned suddenly, scraping the back of his hand across his eyes as they split apart. "You'll have reason to wear them weekend after next."

"Oh, no. Do I have to?" he whined, already sensing where the conversation was heading as Bruce steered him towards the bed. "It's that _stupid_ mid-summer cotillion, isn't it?"

"Yes. And you have to go; these girls aren't much older than you are, you'll have to interact with them in society for the rest of your life."

"…I've decided to take up life as a hermit after high school. I'll come out only at night, and then only to fight crime. No one will even know it's me."

"I tried that for a while. People become uncomfortably suspicious. It won't work. Sorry, chum," he patted his good arm.

"…Could I get out of it if I promise not to even _suggest_ that we take part in any activities at the corporate picnic?" he countered slyly, setting his recent inheritance down carefully on the nightstand. _I'll find a better place for them first thing in the morning,_ he swore silently.

Bruce paused, considering the offer. _I've trained you too well._ "…Alfred will kill us both," he shook his head finally. "Sorry."

"Crap. You're right," he sighed. Laying back, he tried to come up with an alternative trade as the blankets were pulled up and tucked around him. _He was definitely interested in a deal involving his not having to run a sack race,_ he pondered. _He hates going two nights in a row off-duty, but…he really shouldn't be out there by himself, not on this day, even if he'd never admit it. He never leaves __me__ alone on the day I lost my parents, at least not unless he knows that's what I need, so why shouldn't I do the same for him?_ "Well if I can't get out of _that, _what about this: no picnic activities," he baited the hook, "if Batman stays home and watches movies with Robin tonight."

"…That would be two patrols running that I'll have missed, and no one in the city at all," he shook his head. _I know what you're trying to do, kiddo. And I have to admit, it __is__ tempting, but…there's something about punching criminals when I'm in a bad mood. _

"Except, you know, the entire GCPD," Dick rolled his eyes. "Fine. You drive a hard bargain, but…hang out with me instead of going on patrol tomorrow night, and I won't try to make up for this year's lack of picnic participation at next year's." The billionaire started, apparently not having considered that he might be guilted into double the 'fun' next summer, and the boy knew he was close to swinging the deal in his favor. "…Agreed?" he smirked from his pillow.

"And people say _I'm_ a tough negotiator," Bruce muttered. _Part of me enjoys the rage and the darkness, much more so than it should,_ he mulled. _And I could embrace it for a few hours if I went out without you. This is always my blackest night. And yet…_ And yet the past four anniversaries had ended with a bright dawn when he'd returned to the cave and seen Robin's costume, hanging as a reminder that justice could be meted out with a smile as well as – and perhaps better than – with a scowl. The uniform acted as a talisman on those early mornings; its mere presence in his line of sight was enough to burn through the seemingly impermeable fog that always clouded his soul after one of Batman's cold, towering fits of vengeance. _It might be nice to spend this day in the light, for once._ "Agreed," he nodded. "No activities will even be _suggested_ for the next two picnics, and in return I will stay home from patrol tonight."

"And watch bad movies with me. And throw popcorn during the sappy love scenes," he specified.

"Adding terms after the deal's been agreed to is bad form," he arched an eyebrow.

"We haven't shaken yet. The deal isn't official until we shake." He stuck out his hand. "So shake quick, or I'm adding more terms," he threatened cheerfully. Bruce's finger swallowed his. "There. Now there's no escaping me for the rest of the day."

"Good thing it's bedtime, then, isn't it?"

"Looking for contract loopholes already? Now _that's_ bad form."

The billionaire laughed, then gazed at the boy for a long moment. _I wish I knew how I can ever repay you for constantly reminding me that there is still good in the world worth fighting for,_ he thought, swallowing hard. "…Goodnight, kiddo."

Dick smiled happily under the look he could only half-see on his guardian's face. He didn't need better lighting to know exactly what it looked like; he had to search for it sometimes, especially when they were in company or costume, but he had slowly memorized it in exacting detail. Still, though, he was always seeking it out, refreshing the picture in his mind. _There might come a day when he isn't around to give it to me anymore,_ he knew far too well, _and if that day comes, I don't want to lose it. I want that expression, or at least the memory of it, to be the last thing I see in this world._ As nice as the words would have been, he didn't have to have them. He was more than literate enough in the realm of human emotions to read the unspeakable sentiments in the billionaire's eyes for himself. _So long as he looks at me like that, I know I'm safe. I know I'm on the right path. _"G'night, Bruce," he wished him finally, turning away. "…I love you, too."


End file.
